


Routine

by WhisperingOrchard



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, M/M, mostly just pwp, somewhere between a oneshot and a drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingOrchard/pseuds/WhisperingOrchard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is nothing more than routine--just as it has been for months, and as it will be for months to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> As seen on tumblr.  
> Somebody requested a "gentle, dominant Marco" and this resulted.

It was nothing more than routine.

It starts out simply enough—it always does.

Jean initiates in a single motion, slipping beneath the sheets of Marco’s bunk below him. Little utterances, fleeting breaths, bitter smiles exchange between the two companions, small talk in hushed whispers as the surrounding presence delves deeper into sleep.

They will not disturb the two tonight—they mostly never do, not when time shared with comrades is so precious.

In time, the faint flicker of the candle will release its final breath of flame; the once-luminous interior of the room fades to darkness, engulfing them in a thick blanket of confidentiality, and the only audible utterance is the occasional gaspy breath of a fitfully dreaming comrade.

A short period of silence passes between the two, each relishing the warm presence of the other while they can. A shudder crawls along Jean’s spine as a nippy draft drifts through the walls and encases him in cold—a familiar freckled arm slings warmly across his trembling form. His bones ache and cry, swathed in sore muscles from a rigorous day of stamina training with the 3DMG; he’s well aware of the sweat-born musk he must emanate, but Marco hardly seems to mind with his nose buried in the other’s hair—Jean can feel the contented smile on the other’s lips as they rest softly upon his scalp.

Time will pass—seconds? Minutes? Perhaps hours—neither party has wasted a single thought process on the concept of time. In one another’s arms, it matters not. In one another’s arms, time is at a standstill.

In due course, Marco’s lips sift through the choppy blonde locks, maneuvering their way downward in search of bare skin; they rest upon Jean’s forehead for a moment, a breath hitches—the motion draws the heat from the shorter boy’s brow, leaving a strange tingle in the stretch of taught skin. The hot mouth at his face drags its way lazily further, brushing past a single brow, along the oily bridge of his nose, tracing the path to his lips as the blunt, freckled nose follows in suit above it.

Their lips meet.

It begins as always; the feather-faint touching of one mouth to another, the sliding of noses as Jean struggles to find his footing, so to speak. Shifting his body beneath the tattered sheets above them, Marco’s lips disconnect from his companion’s, albeit briefly, as he maneuvers nearer the other boy; he crawls across Jean’s motionless form to slide a leg hesitantly between his. Jean rolls compliantly onto his back, allowing the older male to straddle him before leaning upward to ensnare the other’s lips in his own once more. A pair of arms lift to hook around Marco’s neck, tugging him downward—his body lowers acquiescently as he gently ushers Jean’s head to the mattress amidst the conjoining of their mouths.

Jean turns his head to the side, tearing away from Marco’s lips for a moment to snort lightly. “Shit, that workout was brutal today…”

At this, Marco can only give a small, crooked smile. “Yeah, it was pretty bad, huh? But we finally graduate this week.”

“Yeah… Heh.” Jean chances a faint chuckle, allowing one of his hands to drift to Marco’s bangs, brushing them swiftly away from his face. “Three more days. Then we’re out of this hellhole. Three more days, and we’ll be one step closer to living in the inner wall.”

Marco gives a small nod in agreement. “Almost seems too good to be true, doesn’t it? I can’t wait…”

With a tiny smirk, Jean leans up and traps Marco’s lips in his own once more, guiding his companion back down on top of him. Their mouths meld, breath mingling as it flutters out in little puffs with every split-second separation; in a sudden bout of zeal, Jean’s tongue prods at Marco’s lips, gaining entrance almost immediately. This elicits a shivery groan, muffled only by the rustling of cloth as they cling to one another amid this desperation. Chancing a quick glance, Jean’s eyelids part, if only slightly, fixating themselves briefly upon the face of his companion; the heat that has roused between their flushed faces drowns out the biting chill of the night air.

His limbs ache; he’ll let Marco take control this time.

His eyes slip shut.

Marco’s tongue rubs again against his, delving forward to meet the other halfway between their lips; the scent of intermingled breath fills Jean’s nostrils and lulls his mind—a string of lewd noises are bitten back in his throat at the wet smacking that resonates in the otherwise-silent room. “Marc— _Mmfff_ …” he manages, pulling away once again lest he lose his mind; a short string of saliva breaks at the lack of contact and lashes back upon his chin. “Marco…”

“Hm?” A look of concern crosses his scarlet face suddenly, near impossible to see in the shadows of the night. “What is it? Am I doing something wrong…?”

“Wha—no!” Jean hisses, narrowing his eyes at the thought; Marco releases a sigh of relief above him and dips his face into Jean’s neck, chuckling gently against his throat; the younger boy’s face burns a deeper scarlet as his tongue struggles to form coherent word in the heat of the moment. “I-I just… I’m getting really into this tonight, alright? Just get on with it…”

His breath catches, trapped back in the base of his throat as Marco’s lips drop to trace the contour of his jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the angled expanse. The soft caress of the other’s mouth ushers forth another breathless sigh from Jean’s palpitating chest, and as his arms outstretch to tug at the button of Marco’s pants, he gives a tiny wince and clenches his fingers around the fabric. “God _damn_ , I’m sore…”

“We can make it quick today…” Marco mutters against his ear, curling his face inward to slip his tongue beneath the lobe and work his kisses down the other’s neck. “If you still want to.”

“Will you quit that? I’m— _mff_ —the one who asked in the first place.” His eyelids slide slowly downward to cast a black veil over his vision, relishing the sensations of pleasure circuiting along his veins, his arteries, rousing his fingertips and causing them to curl in ecstasy as their clothed groins brush. “Just… Don’t take all night. You always take so fucking long— _ahh—_ ” His head keels back against the pillow, face scrunching up as Marco’s hand moves to cup him through his trousers. “ _Fuck_ , you’re too fucking soft. Fuck…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Turning a cold shoulder on his aching limbs, Jean lifts his arms again and lets his hands drift back along Marco’s spine; his fingers clench around the other’s upper thighs and push upward, silently exhorting for a greater friction between their bodies. “It means what it sounds like.” Jean takes the baffled, aroused expression on Marco’s face as a sign of doubt; he rolls his eyes mildly and cranes his neck up a bit, gliding the tip of his tongue along the stretch of neck nearest his face, from the base of the boy’s collarbone to the Adam’s apple that bobs erratically in front of his eyes. “You’re so _gentle_ that it drives me—” he lowers his teeth to Marco’s throat and nips teasingly at the skin, “—crazy.”

“Isn’t that the point of sex, though?” Marco lifts an eyebrow, squeaking ever-so-slightly as Jean’s teeth scrape along his neck. “I mean, I really… I love you, Jean.” Giving a tiny shrug, he shifts upward a bit more, earning a short grunt of pleasure from Jean as the motion rubs their pants together once more. “ _Nnf_. Sorry—uh, and… I want to drive you crazy. In a good way. I…” His freckled face dons a vivid crimson—a swift, breathless pant slips from his swollen lips. “…I’m not really one for bedroom talk, huh?”

“You’re also slow as hell,” whispers Jean, chancing a smirk, before his fingers pinch at the older boy’s derriere; Marco yelps again and lowers his face into Jean’s collar, breaths coming in wheezy, shuddery rasps. “We both suck at this and we neither of us last long anyway. Just hurry up and finish.”

To this, Marco harbors no reply; instead, he opts for shifting downward, delving beneath the sheets and out of Jean’s immediate sight—as such, Jean’s hands wander away from Marco’s rear and drag lazily along the other’s spine, lifting up the back of his undershirt and trailing his nails along the taut, field-worn breadth of his searing hot skin. Marco has always had a wider build than Jean, though it is only in these periodic escapades that such a fact is made so prevalent to the younger boy; his muscles are firm and his ranking is no joke—he is more than apt for battle, particularly physically, and what he lacks in brute strength he makes up for in capability and resolve.

His fingers continue their path along Marco’s back, grazing a number of scars and lumps from the past few years of brutal training; he feels the other flinch only once, upon the scraping of a particularly deep cut near his right shoulder blade. Mere seconds flit past before Jean’s hands come at last to Marco’s hair, weaving along the part line and sliding back, combing soft strands of mocha between his fingers.

“Marco…” he utters, barely perceivable, at the sudden feeling of fingers toying with the lip of his pants. He knows perfectly well what’s coming next—it’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s never much more than a dull sensation anymore—the first time Marco sucked him dry, he learned bliss; the second, ecstasy. But the eleventh—the twelfth? A lackluster sort of sensation, a tingling, a numbness, but naught like the pleasure of the first couple times. There are times when Jean wonders, in the deepest core of his brain, if this deadened lovemaking is worth the hassle, worth the humiliation… But there’s a quality to it, something indiscernible that keeps the routine precisely that. Perhaps it’s an addiction—perhaps it’s an urgency to hold Marco nearer—perhaps it even pertains to his own self-image, that a constant reception of sex is somehow redeeming in the long run.

Whatever the case, it shocks him to the point of vulgarity when Marco’s lips close around his cock, and a jolt of arousal sends him reeling; his body squirms in surprise, nearly choking Marco in the process as a lascivious groan slips out past gritted teeth. Gasping in alarm, he clamps a hand over his mouth, hazel eyes growing ever-wider as he lifts the sheet up to peer down at his companion’s face. “What did you—“ he pauses to catch his breath a bit more before continuing, “—just do?”

“I hardly did anything at all.” The blush on Marco’s face grows ever-darker, though it goes mostly unnoticed in the shadowy shroud of night. “Maybe it’s because you’re sore?”

That suggestion is utter bullshit, and Jean wagers that they both know that perfectly well, but now hardly seems the time to argue. Instead, he reluctantly lowers the sheet and drops his head back onto the pillow, silently ushering Marco to continue his ministrations.

Every next motion rouses a foreign thrill in his pores; with every tender, tentative stroke of his tongue, Marco elicits a string of coarse gasps from his dumbstruck lover. As Jean senses his restraint fading with his perception, he claws frantically at the fitted sheet beneath him, clutching fistfuls of fabric as he wills down the array of emotions that have suddenly struck him so hard. Why now?—why is it that his subconscious has chosen _now_ to regret, to _feel_ —to absolutely _love_ the way Marco stares into his eyes, the way he traces his skin with such a delicate touch? Why is he getting sentimental in such an ordinary moment?

Damn it _all_ , three more days.

Then they will be out of this hellhole… Out of this difficult training and into the heart of the city with the rest of the Military Police.

A hot wetness cascades from his lower eyelids—first one eye, then the other—little tears of salt streaming suddenly in rivulets down his flushed cheeks. A shuddery sob racks his body, and it is in this moment that Marco raises his head in alarm and shifts back upward in desperate search for the watery eyes of his lover. “Jean! Are you… What’s the matter?”

It is far from the first time they have made love, and it can’t be the last.

But Jean does little more than shake his head.

He knows not why he is crying.

It’s nothing more than routine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Feedback appreciated. Feel free to check out my multichapter JeanMarco fic, The Art of Cutting Cookies.


End file.
